


Misc. Tumblr Asks/Prompts

by lumbeam



Series: prompts/short stuff [6]
Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Slice of Life, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 14:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8211578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumbeam/pseuds/lumbeam
Summary: An import of the various prompts I've done on my tumblr.





	1. "Who were you with?"

**Author's Note:**

> (Titles are the prompts.) Enjoy!

Amanda cradles her sleeping baby in her arms. She’s huddled next to the space heater in the trailer’s living room, staring at the front door. Her eyes dart towards the digital clock on the end table next to her, its red numbers searing her vision. Michael was supposed to get back an hour ago. It’s the first time he’s been home in months and he goes out. If she smells any semblance of cheap perfume on him--

She hears boots crunching in the snow just outside the trailer. It’s him.

He opens the door slowly, expecting Amanda to be asleep. His eyes adjust to the dim room, and he sees her sitting in the well-worn recliner, Tracey tucked into her arms.

“Hey Mand--” Michael says. He’s a little drunk, but not enough to not notice that Amanda is staring daggers at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Who were you with?” She says in a tense whisper.

“I was just with the guys. T, Brad, Moses--”

“Who were you really with? Don’t lie to me.” She stands, making sure to move slowly so as not to wake the baby.

“I just told you who I was with, Mandy. Geez, what’s your problem?” The alcohol is to blame for the second part. He tugs off his boots, leaving the footprints to melt into the matted shag carpet.

“I would think you’d want to spend time with us, Michael, seeing as you’ve been gallivanting with your cronies for the past few months. Or were you at the Henhouse down the street, trying to find a new wife?” She gets close to Michael, trying to smell any trace of body oil on him. Tracey stirs in her arms.

Michael places his hands on either sides of Amanda’s arms. “Mandy, I’m sorry. I had some ‘plans’ to go through with the fellas, okay?” He fumbles at his coat pockets, pulling out a receipt. “Here, I was at the bar down the street if ya really don’t believe me.”

She looks at the receipt, the time and date displayed at the header. Tears are welling up in Amanda’s eyes, much to her chagrin. “I just wanted you to stay,” she whispered, tilting her head downward.

Michael kisses the top of her forehead and takes Tracey from her arms. “How ‘bout this? Tomorrow, we can do whatever you want to do and I won’t leave your sight. Deal?”

Amanda wipes a stray tear from her eye and brings her head back up. She smiles at him. “Deal.”


	2. "Sorry, were you sleeping?"

 

The amount of hours in the car must have exceeded Trevor’s entire prison sentence. It felt just as arduous. Michael was the only one to see him during the months he was in, probably because he didn’t want to face the cops and banks alone. Least, that’s what T would like to think. He was picked up seemingly a lifetime ago, and the trip thus far was interspersed with silence and his rants of the time in prison.

Trevor, clutching his jacket and personal belongings like a child would a stuffed animal, drifted off to sleep. He dreamt of finding and killing the fucker that ID’d him. He could practically feel the life draining from him, and he could _smell_ the blood pouring onto the ground. Trevor couldn’t be more happy about dreaming again. In the four months, due to the withdraws and prison beatings, he didn’t sleep. Just as he was about to bite into his victim’s warm liver, the jolt of Michael’s car shook him from his fantasy.   
  
“ _Fuck_ !” Trevor yelled, his voice covered by the screech of tires. “You could’ve _fucking_ warned me!”   
  
“Sorry T,” he gestured to the road with one of his hands, “deer jumped out and nearly killed us both. Were you sleeping or somethin’?”

“Matter of fact, I _was_ . Must have had something to do with the fact that I slept on a fucking _gurney_ for the past sixteen weeks while _some people_ were sprawled out on Egyptian cotton and shit,” Trevor spit out, finally able to talk back to someone else without engaging in punishment.

Michael laughed sardonically. “Well don’t let me stop ya. Get some sleep, T.”

Trevor was back to sleep before his brain could even think of a retort.

 


	3. "Don't be fucking rude!"

“How do I look?” Tracey asks as she opens her bedroom door in a flourish. She twirls around in her hot pink ball gown. 

“Like a radioactive tampon!” Jimmy laughs, his voice squeaking. 

“Don’t be fucking rude!” Tracey yells, her hands balled into fists.

“Language, Tracey.” Amanda tuts, going over to fix her daughter’s blonde updo. 

“Why can’t he let me have my moment?” She whines as if prom is the most important event in the world. 

“James, apologize to your sister.” 

“I don’t wanna!” 

“Apologize!” Michael yells out from the bottom of the stairs. He’s been fumbling with the tripod for the last twenty minutes, trying to get it to just hold the fucking camera--

“FINE, Tracey, I’m sorry.” Jimmy says unenthusiastically. “You look like a princess or whatever.”

“Good enough.” Amanda says before getting Tracey’s satin sash. 

Tracey bounds down the stairs. “Daaaaddyyy,” she says in a sing-song voice, “how do I look~?”

Michael looks up from the camera and sees his daughter. “Aw, Trace, my baby girl is growin’ up.” He steps over to hug her lightly so as not to get her spray tan all over his pastel polo. 

There’s a car beep outside. It’s Tracey’s date; Some senior named Jason who Michael thoroughly intimidated (read: threatened) when he found out she was going to prom. Jason is keeping his distance.

“He’s here! Pictures, hurry!” Tracey squeals before regaining her composure as Michael snaps a few pictures of her posing alone. Amanda and Jimmy manage to take a couple pictures with the belle of the ball before she rushes out the front door to Jason’s convertible. 

As Michael watches Tracey go off to prom, he asks Amanda, “We’re gettin’ old, aren’t we?”

She sighs. “Yup.”


	4. Caught in a storm

With each winter that passed in North Yankton, both Michael and Amanda got more and more restless with the prospect of leaving. As of recently, they were convinced North Yankton had turned into Antarctica. It’s amazing Michael didn’t catch a penguin sneaking around in their trailer park.

The vicious snow storm had been raging on for days on end. Michael couldn’t even walk to the convenience store for a pack of smokes for the fear of getting frost bitten. Each time he opens the door to run out to his car, he thinks of Jack Nicholson’s frozen face at the end of The Shining. That image didn’t do much by the way of him wanting to be out in this frozen hellscape longer than necessary. 

It’s late one night and the kids are asleep around the radiator in the living room (their rooms only had a dinky plug-in space heater). Michael is staring out the window, seeing the clumps of white snow fall from the maroon-colored sky. He can barely make out anything beyond the orange glow of their porch light, but he figures no one would be crazy enough to be out. 

Amanda walks over to him, carrying two mugs of microwaved hot chocolate. “When do you think it’ll stop?” She asks quietly, holding out Michael’s mug. 

Michael takes the mug and sips the cocoa slightly. It’s scalding, but it’s good to know the microwave he got a couple months ago works well. “Hopefully before the kids are grown ups.”

She smiles and takes a sip of her drink. “Hopefully.”

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking--” Michael starts to say before Amanda cuts him off. 

“About moving out of here?”

“Somethin’ like that. I don’t know when, but...eventually.” He sips from his mug. “I--we--just need more.”

“More what? Money?”

“Money, time, planning, and so on. We gotta figure out where we’d move to.”

“Somewhere warm.” Amanda muses with a smile on her face. She puts her arm around his waist. “Somewhere where we wouldn’t see this eight months out of the year.”

“Maybe some place like San Andreas? Or Vice City?”

Amanda scoffs. “Yeah, sure, now we’re really dreaming.”

Michael shrugs. “Maybe just seeing this is drivin’ me insane.”

“I think it is,” she says sweetly, kissing him on the cheek. Amanda goes over to the radiator to check on the kids. Michael looks over at them and smiles, the thought of sunny San Andreas never leaving his mind.


	5. Tending an injury

After a long night dancing, Amanda returns home, a healthy amount of cash lining her faux fur jacket. When she quietly enters her room, she gasps at the sight of Michael sitting on her bed. Normally this would be a typical sight, but this time he’s holding a bloodied wad of paper towels to his right eye. She’s shocked, unsure of where to even start. 

“Michael--what--” 

“Relax, Mandy. Some prick tried to jump me on the way over here. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“‘Nothing to worry about?!’ You’re--you’re bleeding!” She says frantically as she tries to find a stray towel in her messy room. Her method of employment has made her desensitized to a lot of things--bar fights, strangers jerking off in the back of the club, creepy men waiting for her after her shift--but she has never seen one of her flings (Boyfriend? Partner? Fuck buddy? It’s all kind of unspecified) bleeding over her bedspread. 

After finding a towel in one of her dresser drawers, Amanda goes over to take the paper towels off of his face. Some of the sheets have stuck to Michael’s face, and he tries to hide his pain. There’s a small gash just below his eye. Not deep enough for stitches, which Amanda is thankful for.

“Did you get a good look at him?” Amanda asks, patting the towel gingerly against his face.

“Nah, just some scrawny fuckin’ punk.” Michael grunts. “Didn’t expect him to have such sharp rings, though…” 

“Jesus, Michael...” Amanda says, her voice trailing off. “Hold this towel here, I’ll be back.” She goes off to get an ice pack from the freezer and some of her mom’s painkillers from the medicine cabinet.

Michael is lying down his boots strewn off to the edge of her bed. Amanda lifts the towel and puts the ice pack onto his skin, causing Michael to jump. “Fuckin’ A--”

“Shh! Don’t wake up my parents!” Amanda hushes, sounding like a teenager. “Take this.”

Michael swallows the pill without even asking what it’s for. He holds out his free arm, inviting Amanda onto the other side of the bed.

She snuggles up next to him, laying her head in the crook of his neck. 

“Where would I be without you, Mand?” Michael asks, his voice sleepy.

“I don’t wanna know.” Amanda says, kicking her high heels off to join Michael’s shoes on the floor.


	6. Teaching the other something new

“FUCK!”

Michael heard trevor’s yell through his sleep. After a long day of traveling, the two of them finally found a house in the middle of nowhere to stake out. Thankfully, the windows in the house were all still intact. For Trevor, that was good enough for them. 

A shot rings out outside. “GODDAMNIT!” Trevor yells again, being louder than the gunshot.

Michael finally decides to unfurl himself from the mountain of blankets and go see what’s happening. He tugs on his sweatpants and boots and grabs his coat before he goes out the back door.

Outside, lit only by the dim porch light, he can make out trevor’s figure. He set up a makeshift shooting range of a rusty oil drum and some crumpled Natty cans. Michael isn’t sure whether Trevor found the cans or if he drank them, but he can probably guess.

Trevor raises the gun again for a shot, his hands shaking. He hasn’t bothered to shoot anything since firing the flare into that old guy’s eye. Michael noticed that Trevor hasn’t been sleeping as much. 

Trevor pulls the trigger, and the bullet hits the top of the oil drum. None of the cans fall down. He groans, making a deep gutteral noise, and turns toward Michael. It’s as if he’s just noticed Michael, even though he’s been out for a few minutes.

“Nice outfit, sweet cheeks.” Trevor says, giving Michael a once-over on his no-shirt-only-coat style. “Is that what’s en vogue nowadays?” 

Michael ignores it. “Need some help shooting?”

“No…” Trevor grumbles. He pulls out some more bullets from his pocket. “S’not like you can fire any better than me.”

“Oh, wanna bet?” Michael is never one to back down from putting his masculinity on display. He snatches the gun from Trevor, stray bullets scattering in the snow. He lines it up, closes one eye, and knocks down all of the cans. 

Trevor is trying not to act impressed (or even a little turned on). “Pfft, way to go, champ. I doubt you’d be this good when you’re face-to-face with some rando cop.”

“Yeah, only time will tell, T. You sure you don’t need help?” Michael asks, offering the pistol back to Trevor. 

He snatches the gun from Michael’s outstretched hand and nods slightly. 

Michael hustles over to the barrel and puts the cans back on it. “Okay,” he says as he walks behind T, “what you have to do is just focus on your target. Let everything else melt away. This is the most important moment. Your entire life has come to this.”

Trevor scoffs but he points the gun to one of the cans. “Your coach tell you this a lot back in the day, QB?”

“C’mon, T, don’t be like that.” He grabs Trevor’s arms to steady them. “Now, keep your eye on the target. Look right down the middle, and shoot.” 

Trevor does as he’s told, and he manages to shoot the can right in the middle of the logo. 

“There ya go, T!” 

“Yeah, soon I’ll be killing guys in no time!” Trevor says, only half-joking. 

“Well, that’s one way of lookin’ at it!” He says. “Let’s try it again.”

Their impromptu target practice lasts until the sun rises.


	7. Franklin and Lamar talk about popstars

as soon as the chorus of “7/11″ comes around, lamar quickly changes to the old school rap station. 

“’ey!” franklin snaps, trying to turn the tuning knob back to beyonce. it doesn’t work. “the fuck, homie?”  
  
“ _maaan_ , i don’t wanna listen to no fuckin’ beyonce.” lamar says, keeping his hand on the radio knob just in case.  
  
franklin makes an offended noise. he’s never heard _anyone_ around him be anti-beyonce.  “and why not?”  
  
“cause she boring. she real fuckin fine, but she boring as _hell_.” lamar turns up the radio to listen to “the next episode.” 

franklin scoffs. “she’s talented though, homie.”  
  
“talent ain’t mean much if there’s no personality. now, rihanna, on the other hand…i could fuck with some rih.”  
  
“for real?” franklin asks as merges onto the los santos freeway. he’s never been much of a rih fan.  
  
“yeah fuckin fo’ real, homie. you _know_  she’d be a good time. her music is catchy, too.”   
  
franklin shrugs. “i don’t know man, i like rita ora more.”  
  
lamar cracks a smile. “fuckin rita ora? she ain’t going to happen, man.”  
  
“says you. she’s still up and coming!” franklin says, getting a little defensive.  
  
“that rihanna understudy’s been up-and-coming for _years_  now, frank. i would say her fifteen minutes is up, but she never even _had_  fifteen seconds.”  
  
“man, fuck you.”  
  
“you’re just mad i’m right, homie! i’ll give you this though: bey’s better and more interesting than that rita ora chick any day.”  
  
“yeah, whatever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I should add that this was written before Beyoncé released Lemonade. Otherwise Lamar would definitely have different opinions about her.)


	8. In Which Michael and Amanda Do Yoga and Listen to Music

michael wakes up to the feeling of someone tapping him. he tries to ignore it, but the tapping soon turns into rough jabs on his stomach. he finally opens his eyes and sees amanda standing over him, yoga mat cradled under her arm.  
  
he sits up a little in his lounge chair, but still trying to drift back to sleep under the warm los santos sun. “michael, get _up.”_ amanda finally hits him with her yoga mat in the shoulder, only hard enough to piss him off.  
  
“y’know, you’re makin’ it really hard for me to want to actually do yoga with you, mand.”  
  
“well i’m not the one who said ‘hey mand, i’m just gonna get some sun before we _namaste_  and all that shit.’” amanda says, trying to deepen her voice to sound like michael.   
  
with a groan, he gets up from his chair slowly and grabs his phone. “all right, all right, lemme go get my mat.”  
  
by the time michael comes back out with his mat (and more comfortable shorts), amanda’s already stretching and doing her deep breathing exercises.   
  
“so glad you waited for me.” he says sarcastically, although it means less time he has to embarrass himself on the mat.  
  
“ _someone_  took too long.” amanda responds, her eyes still closed. she deeply inhales and exhales.  
  
“can i at least play _my_ music this time? can’t really go for another round of enya or whale sounds or whatever is left over from fabien’s music choices.”  
  
“i guess.”

michael puts his ifruit into the stereo and shuffles his music. it’s mostly dad rock, but the first song is a more mellow ballad by some sappy hair metal band.

“how soothing.” amanda quips. michael ignores her as he starts his breathing. he tries to create a fire in his belly, or whatever amanda’s yoga new instructor tells her. he never really understands it.  
  
eventually, amanda is saying the poses and michael is following her lead. the rock ballad ends right as they’re both into their plank position, and then the opening strings to lana del rey’s “born to die” come on.   
  
there’s a moment where amanda looks over at him and michael continues to stare down into his mat from his plank.  
  
“babe…what is this?”  
  
_feet don’t fail me nooooow~*  
  
“_ um, i dunno what you’re talkin’ about. i think i grabbed your phone by mistake.” he’s practically burning a hole into his mat now.  
  
_take me to the finish liiiine~*  
  
“_ babe, i don’t listen to lana del rey. also, that’s definitely your phone.”  
  
_oh my heart it ~breaks ev-er-y step that i taaaaake~*  
  
“_ fuck, maybe tracey put her music on my phone.” sweat is starting to form on his brow as the two of them move into a down dog split.  
  
_but i’m ho-pin’ at the gates–  
  
“_ why the fuck would tracey use your phone?”  
  
“fuckin’ A, FINE. I like lana del rey, all right?!” michael can feel amanda’s smirk on the side of his face. they switch to the other leg in their down dog split.  
  
“since _when?”_ she asks. she’s _loving_  this.  
  
“since fuckin’ i don’t know. a while ago. i saw her online and i just–she’s like an updated nancy sinatra, mand.”  
  
“if you say so. bring your leg forward to the middle of your chest.” she instructs.  
  
without even prompting him to say any more, michael continues. “she’s just. god, she’s like a fuckin’ photograph of old hollywood. like those girls in los santos who want to be in a movie and she’s just so much _more_  than other pop singers now a days.”   
  
_don’t make me saaaad, don’t make mee cryy~*_  
  
“oh _please,_ michael. she’s no more real _or_  fake than the rest of them.”  
  
“mand, her songs _mean_ somethin’, okay?”  
  
“doesn’t she have a song called ‘fucked my way to the top?’”  
  
“okay, fine. _most of_  her songs mean something. she’s so great, mand.”  
  
“well,” amanda goes down into a half cobra, “she has that whole lolita thing going on. does you liking her have _anything_ to do with that?”  
  
michael is silent for a moment. “…no–”  
  
“oh my god, you’re so transparent! just as shallow as the day i met you!” amanda spits back.  
  
“and you were the same way back then, baby. don’t lie.” michael finally brings up the courage to look back at her. he’s relieved to see she’s slightly smiling. she raises to a full cobra.  
  
“i’m just _teasing_ you, michael. i don’t mind you like lana del rey, gross reasons or not.”  
  
“all right, all right.” michael says defeatedly. the two of them continue their yoga routine, and michael starts to slightly hum to “born to die.” he finally decides to mutter, “…they’re not all gross reasons…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael loves Lana Del Rey, pass it on~


	9. "You're a terrible cook!"

The night sky is starting to rest upon the horizon of the Sandy Shores trailers. Porch lights flicker on, attracting moths to the glow. Coyotes howl in the distance before scampering away from passing dune buggies.    
  
This setting is nothing different. The desert is almost annoyingly consistent, in Trevor’s eyes.    
  
He’s standing near the stove, looking out the broken blinds of the kitchen’s window. Mrs. Madrazo, tired from scrubbing every square inch of the dilapidated trailer, is resting on the armchair outside. He sees her looking at the horizon wistfully. When she first went outside to watch the sunset, Trevor was thinking about having Ron keep an eye on her. He cast his worry away, knowing that she wouldn’t leave. Michael may call that “Stockholm Syndrome,” but what does he know?  _ Certainly not love, _ Trevor muses.

Since Patricia being taken and Madrazo going ballistic, Michael has slipped into a depressive state. Staying out until late at night, not changing out of his dirty suit, drinking himself into a stupor, listening to  _ country music _ .    
  
It’s a disgrace, even for New Michael. Trevor was hoping that their status as wanted men would have the Old Michael come to the surface again. Instead, the inverse has happened.   
  
So tonight, which looks like any other night, is different. Trevor is going to try this whole “hospitality” concept for Michael;  _ anything _ to get him out of this whiny man-pain. He’s going to actually  _ cook _ a meal. He even stole one of chef’s aprons to look the part.   
  
It’s amazing his gas stove was even still connected. For a second, Trevor considered taking a blowtorch to the venison he got from Cletus.    
  
“Hello Michael!” He heard Patricia jovially call out. “You’re back early!”   
  
“Yeah, it’s a real tragedy,” Michael mumbles, hustling up the stairs. He swings the door open and he’s hit with the smell of charred venison. 

“Hello, my dear!” Trevor says, trying on his best Julia Child impression. “How  _ wonderful  _ of you to join me in my home!”

Michael’s eyes travel up and down Trevor’s smock, then to the too-large steak in the pan. “What….is  _ this _ ?”

“This,  _ sweetheart _ ,” Trevor says, continuing his dreadful impression, “is the finest slab of deer that Sandy Shor--no, the  _ world _ , has to offer!”    
  
Michael crinkles his nose and heads over to the fridge, finding a beer in the back. Thankfully, Mrs. Madrazo has scrubbed and disinfected the inside of the fridge, so he isn’t hit with the aroma of rotten food and spilled condiments long since forgotten. “But  _ why _ ?”    
  
Trevor brings the stove to a low heat and whips around. “ _ Michael _ , because--”   
  
“T,” Michael cuts in, “ _ please _ stop with the Julia Child bullshit and just tell me what the fuck you’re doing.”   
  
He rolls his eyes, “ _ Fine _ , you fucking party pooper. I figured I’d try to do you a  _ favor _ and treat you to some good old fashioned venison. Because I’m  _ nice _ and you’ve been a whiny fuck ever since Patricia, bless her soul, has moved in.”   
  
After taking a swig from his beer, Michael interjects, “‘Moved in,’ okay. New term for kidnapp--”   
  
Trevor holds up his hand. “Do you want this fucking meal or not?”   
  
“I’m not really hungry--”    
  
“ _ Well _ , you’re getting it anyway,” Trevor says, turning the stove off and getting out a paper plate from the cupboard (why bother with  _ dishes _ ?). “Bon appetit, and all that shit.” He slides the well-done steak with some silverware across to the counter to where Michael is sitting.   
  
Michael looks at the steak, hanging over the paper plate and touching the table. “I, um. Thanks, T.” He doesn’t bother asking for sauce. Trevor doesn’t seem like an A-1 kind of guy.   
  
Trevor salutes, focusing putting his own steak in the stove pan. He cooks it enough to brown the edges, then he gets out a plate for himself. “Sorry this ain’t, you know, some  _ fine dining  _ French Laundry-type shit, but hopefully it’ll be enough to suffice. Then again, it’s not like you’ve been eating  _ quality _ home-cooked meals in your depressing-as-fuck mansion.”

Michael scoffs before cutting into the meat. It’s pretty tough, even for well-done standards. He takes a bite of it.    
  
He’s not sure if the meat is bad or if Trevor has never cooked a steak in his life, but he guzzles his beer to get the taste out of his mouth.    
  
“The  _ fuck’s _ your problem?” Trevor asks with a mouthful of food, some steak juice dripping off his lips.    
  
When Michael sets down his beer, he coughs out, “T, I appreciate it and all, but you’re a  _ terrible _ cook.”    
  
Trevor swallows the remainder of his bite. “ _ Jesus Christ _ Michael, you are so fucking hard to please! First, you don’t eat my meal at the headquarters, now you don’t eat this meal that I  _ lovingly _ ,  _ out of the bottom of my heart _ , cooked for you!” 

“Yeah, well the reason I didn’t eat the first meal is because it had a fuckin’  _ eyelid  _ in it! Mad cow disease is something I want to avoid, T.”    
  
“Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.” Trevor says, taking another bite of his steak.

“What?”   
  
“The human equivalent of mad cow is Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. Just throwing it out there.”   
  
“ _ Thanks _ and all, but my point still fuckin’ stands. My steak is inedible.” He pushes his plate away. 

Trevor gestures toward the fridge. “I got some steak sauce if you want to hide the  _ love and generosity _ I put into your meal.”   
  
Michael brings his plate closer to him before going to the fridge. It turns out Trevor  _ is _ an A-1 guy. “Thanks.” He mutters.

Trevor throws off his apron makes his way over to the seat next to Michael, who is dousing his steak with the sauce. He watches Michael until he takes a bite of his steak. Michael doesn’t complain with his new bite.  
  
Trevor hopes that single luxury is a sign that the living arrangement will improve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to clubafterlife for giving me some new prompts to write! ^3^


End file.
